THE HOLLY-TREE.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

O READER, hast thou ever stood to see
The holly-tree?

The eye that contemplates it well perceives
Its glossy leaves,

Order'd by an Intelligence so wise,

As might confound the atheist's sophistries.

Below a circling fence its leaves are seen
Wrinkled and keen;

No grazing cattle through their prickly round
Can reach to wound;

But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarm'd the pointless leaves appear.

I love to view these things with curious eyes,
And moralise;

And in this wisdom of the holly-tree
Can emblems see,

Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme,
One which may profit in the after-time.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere;

To those who on my leisure would intrude,
Reserved and rude ;-

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be,
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt, I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day

Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly-tree.

HAPPY OLD AGE.

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly-leaves a sober hue display
Less bright than they;

But, when the bare and wint'ry woods we sec,
What then so cheerful as the holly-tree?

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng;

So would I seem amid the young and gay
More grave than they;

That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly-tree.

17

HAPPY OLD AGE.

R. SOUTHEY.

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried; "The few locks that are left you are gray; You are hale, Father William, a hearty old man, Now, tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth would fly fast, And abused not my health and my vigour at first, That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And pleasures with youth pass away;

And yet you lament not the days that are gone,
Now, tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," Father William replied, "I remember'd that youth could not last;

I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, Father William," the young man cried, "And life must be hastening away;

You are cheerful, and love to converse upon death! Now, tell me the reason, I pray."

“I am cheerful, young man," Father William replied; "Let the cause thy attention engage;

In the days of my youth I remembered my God!!
And He hath not forgotten my age."

THE MOTHER OF THE MACHABEES.

J. J. CALLANAN.

THAT mother viewed the scene of blood;
Her six unconquered sons were gone:
Fearless she viewed ;-beside her stood
Her last, her youngest, dearest one!
He looked upon her and he smiled;—
Oh! will she save that only child ?

"By all my love, my son," she said,

"The breast that nursed, the womb that bore, The unsleeping care that watched thee, fed, 'Till manhood's years required no more: By all I've wept and prayed for thee, Now, now, be firm, and pity me!

"Look, I beseech thee, on yon heaven,
With its high field of azure light;
Look on this earth, to mankind given,
Arrayed in beauty and in might;
And think, nor scorn thy mother's prayer,
On Him who said it-and they were!

THE DYING CHIEF.

"So shalt thou not this tyrant fear,
Nor recreant, shun the glorious strife;
Behold! thy battle-field is near;

Then go, my son, nor heed thy life:
Go, like thy faithful brothers die,
That I may meet you all on high !"

Like arrow from the bended bow

He sprang upon the bloody pile;
Like sunrise on the morning's snow,
Was that heroic mother's smile.
He died-nor feared the tyrant's nod-
For Juda's law and Juda's God.

19

THE DYING CHIEF.

MRS. MACLEAN. (L. E. L.)

THE stars looked down on the battle-plain
Where night-winds were deeply sighing,
And with shattered lance near his war steed slain
Lay a youthful Chieftain-dying.

He had folded round his gallant breast
The banner once o'er him streaming,
For a noble shroud, as he sunk to rest
On the couch that knows no dreaming.

Proudly he lay on his broken shield
By the rushing Guadalquiver;

While, dark with the blood of his last red field,
Swept on the majestic river.

There were hands which came to bind his wound,
There were eyes o'er the warrior weeping;
But he raised his head from the dewy ground,
Where the land's high hearts were sleeping,

And "Away!" he cried; "your aid is vain,
My soul may not brook recalling;
I have seen the stately flower of Spain
Like the autumn vine-leaves falling!

"I have seen the Moorish banners wave
O'er the halls where my youth was cherished;
I have drawn a sword that could not save;
I have stood where my king hath perished!

"Leave me to die with the free and the brave,
On the banks of my own bright river!
Ye can give me nought but a warrior's grave,
By the chainless Guadalquiver!"

BRUCE TO HIS MEN AT BANNOCKBURN.

ROBERT BURNS.

Scors, wha hae wi' Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome to your gory bed,
Or to victorie!

Now's the day, and now's the hour,
See the front o' battle lour:
See approach proud Edward's pow'r-
Chains and slaverie!

Wha will be a traitor-knave?
Wha can fill a coward's grave?
Wha sae base as be a slave?
Let him turn and flee!

Wha for Scotland's king and law
Freedom's sword will strongly draw,
Freeman stand, or freeman fa'?
Let him follow me!